


Kindred Spirit

by LateStarter58



Category: The Night Manager - Fandom
Genre: Character Turned Into a Ghost, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-12 05:21:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16866895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LateStarter58/pseuds/LateStarter58
Summary: A short one shot, originally written for Halloween. A tiny coda to You Look Like a Movie





	Kindred Spirit

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [You Look Like a Movie](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16848808) by [LateStarter58](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LateStarter58/pseuds/LateStarter58). 



The sky is black. The night is clear; cold, crisp air brushes over her… but what does it touch? Looking down, she sees only the ground far below, the trees, the flowers, the streets and buildings that she passes; all of it distant and remote from her existence.

How long had it been this way? Days, years? Time lost meaning for her, long ago. Space, too, has no hold on this new self. But yet, there was this relentless drift, as if pulled by some invisible, undetectable tide. On, on, always onwards, never dallying, never settling in one place. Is she searching for something? If so, she knows not what. Or who. No more than she understands what holds and guides her. She does not know how she moves, but she does, relentlessly. With will and concentration, she is able to steer her progress, but mostly she allows herself to ride the current that carries her, like plankton in the great blue ocean, onwards to her unknown, unseen destination.

Trees shudder as she passes. The crops in the fields, the long grass, they bend to escape from her approach. Owls veer away, alarmed; bats flutter and turn their backs. Foxes and weasels start, stare or run. Do they fear her? Does she disgust them? Is she an unnatural thing, an abomination? What was there left of her to scare or bother anyone?

She feels. Most of all she feels. Things she cannot name. Sometimes they seem like pain or emptiness; other days she is suffused with joy and formless memories of warmth and love. But she is no longer able to remember what any of it means. She is glad that mostly she does not scare people, if only since they seem not to see her at all. Usually. But still she likes to watch, to drift close and feel them, feel their emotions as much as she can. Share them. Understand her own needs, wants; her loss.

She does not know why she is still here, tethered somehow to a world that she should have left long before, but when she comes near to people, she feels a purpose of sorts. When she comes upon women in danger, something surges. Something she can harness. A way she can help.

_“Non!”_

_“Mais, chérie…”_

_A struggle, hands gripping wrists too tightly, foul, hot, panting breaths, a face turned away in disgust…_

_“Ah, putain! Qu’est-ce que-”_

_He is interrupted by icy fingers on his neck. He looks around, alarmed as he feels chill breath on his skin and an unmistakable hostility. But there is nobody there; they are still alone beside the church. Just him and Marie-Laure, in the dark of the evening. Only a scrawny cat, staring, wild-eyed, from behind the recycling bins. When he turns back, his prey is gone. Freed by the scent of vanilla and an undeniable benevolence, she has made good her escape and melted into the night._

 

Her work done, she drifts on, warm memories returning and filling her mind. Of him: of his kindness, his gentle, polite wooing that was meant to save, but was the end of her. There is no resentment, no blame. This much she can grasp at and retain: that was no life she had been living. What had she lost but pain and shame and horror? Now there remained love and some feeling of… of something. Of a kind of destiny. A purpose, however small. Better than the decadence and pointlessness. She drifts again, back in the rip tide, drawn inexorably on...

 

_A child stands by her window, looking above the dark moonless fields, watching for shooting stars. She feels a presence closing in: warm, kind and loving. Someone is passing outside, not quite visible, but the scent of vanilla fills the room and the girl can almost feel the heat of the North African sun on her shoulders. A movement, just in her peripheral vision, gone in a heartbeat, leaving a sense of joy and love._

 

She is near now. She is certain. She senses a presence she recognises, a warm heart that is still filled with love, but is changed… happier than when she shared it. A beautiful house, lovely gardens, trees that do not shy away but welcome her. Two dogs stir, stretching and moaning in their sleep as she passes; they are not afraid. She strokes their narrow heads and they press into her invisible, formless touch. She feels him, so close, and her heart is full. She drifts upwards, through his home, feeling the joy and love that fills it. She is sad and happy, and she understands why. She watches them sleeping, sees him stir and she tries somehow to send him soft thoughts of love. His face settles in a near-smile and she leaves to escape the longing.

 

_The little boy stands in his cot. It is his new trick and he does it all the time. He does it for Mummy and Daddy and Grandma. But tonight he reaches out for the pretty lady floating in his room. Her hair is darker than Mummy’s and she smells sweet, like Grandma’s cakes.  She is kind and he likes her. She is smiling and crying but he does not feel sad._

 

“Michael,” she whispers with a voice she did not know she had, “tell your Papa that Samira is happy for him.” The toddler laughs, her sweetness making him so joyful he knows no other way to tell her, and her pale, cool, transparent hand ruffles the soft brown curls on his head. He watches, then protests as she fades away, her lovely smile the last thing to disappear.

 

_He never knew why it was, but that night marked the end of Jonathan’s nightmares. His only clue was something his son drew, years later, when Geri suggested he do a picture of a ghost for Halloween: a beautiful, floating, grey woman, clothed in diaphanous shimmering fabric, her face marked with sad eyes and a broad, benevolent smile._


End file.
